


Let Me Be The Promise That You Keep

by Voiid_Vagabond (Saturn_the_Almighty)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings in Author's Notes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Bed-sharing, Blood and Injury, Bonding, Erik You Slut, Geneticist Charles, Happy Ending, I want no conflict of ideals in this fic tyvm, M/M, Men Crying, Photographer Erik, Plane Crashes, everyone else dies I'm so sorry, near-death situations, no beta we die like shaw in first class, sexy plane crash photoshoot, survival fic, they're on a beach but no divorce this time :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Voiid_Vagabond
Summary: ON HIATUSCharles is a geneticist on his way to a conference in Australia. Erik is a wildlife photographer headed the same way.During their flight, disaster strikes and they are the only two remaining, stranded on an island. Alone. Can they survive until help arrives? Will help ever come? And can Charles tell Erik he thinks he's attractive before they get rescued or will he take that to his grave?
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Please by Saro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Warnings for this chapter: Description of a plane crash, deceased people, major injuries and blood. None of these topics are described in too much detail. Keep yourself safe. This chapter is probably as bad as any warnings will get. I won't write anything worse than this.

Erik watches as a flight attendant passes his seat, smiling to the passengers and letting them know that the fight will be leaving soon. Her voice is quiet, even more so in the muffled cabin. There’s a specific quality to the air that he’s only ever noticed inside planes.

Maybe it’s the curved shell. Maybe it’s the heightened nervousness of new and seasoned fliers alike.

He grips the armrest of his seat that faces the aisle. The hard plastic gives way to cold painted metal as he moves his fingers. It hums under Erik's touch and he slides his eyes shut and lets his power snake along the seat and down into the floor, up over the rounded metal ribs of the cabin, not unlike some huge, hulking beast.

He feels the wings outside, sleek and solid, the landing gear and where it touches the tarmac.

The whirr and grind of the engines booting up makes Erik's eyes snap back open and he breathes a sigh, content with the safety of the plane and calmed by the encompassing presence of metal surrounding him.

"I'm so sorry." A voice, suddenly. Erik whips his head around, first to the aisle, then to the window seat on his other side.

His seatmate is leaning against the outside wall, pressing his body as far away from Erik's as he can. Erik feels a frown start to form between his eyebrows.

"Excuse me?" He asks.

The man smiles, although it's not humorous. It doesn't reach his eyes. Their color reminds Erik of the ocean, a sapphire-grey that flicks around every inch of the plane he can see before landing back on Erik.

"I don't fly often, I may get altitude sickness. You've been warned," the man says. He has an accent, British. Erik cocks his head.

The man shifts in his seat, pushing his hair out of his eyes before tugging a loose, black cardigan more squarely around his shoulders. With the way his legs are bent it looks to Erik like he'd love to pull them all the way up to his chin, curl up in the seat and close his eyes until they land.

And yet, they haven't even taken off yet.

Erik nods jerkily. "Alright, well. Have some tomato juice, I'm sure you'll be okay," he reasons as an attendant clicks on the intercom to announce their oncoming departure.

The man beside him sighs sharply and Erik can feel the vibrations from where he begins tapping against his own armrest. They listen to the sound of the engines turn to a rumble, see the runway turn to a blur and then they're in the air, bound for Sydney.

* * *

Charles has long since flipped down the window cover on the tiny, round thing that peeks out into the open sky and the rolling, white clouds. It’s getting dark anyway, soon he’ll have to figure out a way to get a few hours of shut-eye, no matter how uncomfortable they may be.

"And that's the biggest problem I have, really, _no one_ in the entire department seems keen on working together with me. It's a shame. I'd love to get to know them more than simply co-workers, but I suppose it might be hard to change their opinions of me after they'd already been formed far sooner than I came to work there.” Charles has been talking for a few minutes, uninterrupted as his seatmate flips through a fashion magazine and glances over at him every so often.

He doesn’t seem to be ignoring Charles’ words, so he elects to omit the part about his entire department knowing him only as “The Telepath” for weeks before he had demanded they call him by his given name.

One can never be too careful. Charles had had one too many unpleasant reactions to various coming out speeches which he had memorized, or demonstrations of his powers. “Common misinformation and stereotypes must've—” he stops, eyes landing on a plastic cup of red liquid and slides his eyes over to his seatmate, who isn’t even looking at him, yet holding out the cup for Charles to take.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I took the liberty of ordering you that tomato juice. And water, as well, if that suits you more. You were talking when we were offered drinks.” The man offers his other hand, a water bottle in that one. He’s still leaning over the magazine in his lap, like he wants Charles to know that he’s not paying _that_ much attention to him.

Charles is caught between wanting to smile and wanting to frown. He’d like to reach out with his mind and see what this man is thinking, even just his surface thoughts. It would be easy, unobtrusive. No. No, he can’t. Even as the man lifts his head fully and turns towards Charles with raised eyebrows, even as Charles stares into his grey-blue eyes as he takes the drinks from his hands, even as his telepathy _yearns_ to get even a glimpse of what’s going on in there—

The man has rudimentary mental shields up, preventing him from accidentally seeing anything if he were to brush up against his mind. It makes Charles wonder even more what’s going through his head.

"Marvelous, thank you,” is what Charles says instead, setting the water bottle on his lap and sipping at the tomato juice. It’s not that bad. If anything, it’s a decent distraction. “What are you flying to Sydney for?"

His seatmate hasn’t stopped looking at him, magazine completely forgotten in his lap. "I'm photographing the Natural Science conference for a written publication, among other things."

Charles lowers the cup from his lips. "What a lovely coincidence. I am _attending_ it. Be sure to get my good side," he jokes.

"Which side is that?" The man asks.

Charles grins. "All of them."

He doesn’t get a reply, only a good-natured crinkle of the eyes before the man goes back to his magazine. Charles feels like now is as good a time as any to get some sleep and he pulls off the forest-green sweater he's wearing and balls it up to use as a pillow.

He manages to get a measly one hour of sleep, if his watch is anything to go by, although he isn’t sure about the timezones.

He glances to the side, righting himself in his seat and trying not to be obvious as he sees his seatmate with a camera in his hands, flicking through the shots he’s already captured on it and peering at them in the little viewscreen. They look almost entirely made up of animal photos, a few of trees, moss and temperate flora.

They're entrancing shots from what he can make out and he'd love to see more. The man must have a portfolio if he does this professionally. All he needs is a name to put to the talent.

“I don’t believe I’ve given you my name," Charles starts, noting the way the man's hands jolt almost imperceptibly. "I’m Charles Xavier, I’m a geneticist.”

"A pleasure," he gets back, the man even going so far as to shake his hand. It's warm, a far cry from what he expected. Charles is loath to let go but he does.

"Erik Lehnsherr."

And what a gorgeous name. Fitting. Charles does a mental double-take at that thought. He's not wrong, the man— Erik— is stunning. All sharp angles and trim waist, eyes like a storm.

"I believe the pleasure is _all mine,_ Erik, I—”

All the lights in the cabin flicker for a second and the plane _drops_ , he can feel it in his stomach. Charles stops mid-sentence, wincing at a surge of thoughts that press in on him. He leans past Erik at the rest of the cabin and sees the majority of them sitting up in alarm, various frowns and confused looks all around.

Erik joins in on the confusion, packing his camera away and gripping the armrest between them.

The plane jolts again and an unobtrusive chime sounds.

"Good evening, passengers," a flight attendant begins. "We are experiencing inclement weather. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened and remain calm."

Charles elects to ignore that last request, his hand reaching out on instinct and finding Erik’s arm. He's too alarmed to dissect the action and decide if it's inappropriate. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut to try and focus and seeks out the pilot. Her mind is in disarray, much like the rest of the plane, but there's a thought that's running through it on a loop and makes his blood run cold.

_"We're not going to make it. We won't survive."_

He sees images of a black, turbulent sky, a sea that churns and crashes underneath them, a coastline of grey sand and dark trees. It's all hurtling towards them at terrifying speeds, rain battering the windshield like bullets.

Charles’ eyes snap open again, widening, a shock and horror etching itself deeper into his face as he grips Erik’s arm so hard it probably hurts. He gasps in a breath.

“We’re not going to make it. Erik, we’re not going to make it.” His voice shakes, it sounds full of sharp edges as he forces the words out between his teeth and Erik pulls his arms around Charles as the plane shakes again and the screams rise to a crescendo.

* * *

Erik isn’t sure what compels him to embrace the scared man next to him. He could just as easily protect them _without_ pulling him quite so close, but he tucks Charles’ head against his shoulder and opens his hands in front of him.

He wills the sound to a background static as he focuses on bending the sheets of metal over their heads into a protective shell, close and safe. They won’t die here. Erik refuses to. He clenches his fist and the metal squeezes in, it brushes against his back, he can feel the entire craft warping and shuddering, ripping itself apart at the rivets. He hears human voices, screams of terror and it floods the plane completely.

The impact is worse than he expects.

The first _crunch_ makes his stomach twist and his body snaps back with the forceful deceleration. The second noise is a full, encompassing crash that extends along the entire body of the plane, up into Erik's head and makes his jaw rattle.

They settle. The plane creaks. It's dark inside the tiny metal ball. Erik can hear Charles breathing unevenly and he's shaking against his chest.

The wheeze and scream of crumpled metal is the only other noise he hears for a while until his senses adjust and he makes out the staccato of huge raindrops battering the wreckage, some even making it to the shell he built. Which means the plane's been ripped open, enough to be exposed to the air.

He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to reach out with his powers and see how the metal has been warped and twisted. He does anyway.

Erik knows when he opens their shell he won't find any survivors.

The metal peels back. He peeks out of the opening, seeing exposed wires and things on fire. His eyes jump past the charred, torn and broken human shapes he can make out, fear rising in his throat as he tries to avoid looking at them for too long. The scene is a horrific mess and the sky overhead seems to encourage it, all rolling clouds and dancing arcs of lightning. It's black, matching the columns of smoke which rise into the heavens. It's all blurred by the relentless downpour of rain.

Erik closes the shell around him and Charles again.

Charles blinks himself awake slowly and Erik isn't sure if he passed out due to stress or if he's hurt somewhere.

Charles' vivid blue eyes flick around the sheet-metal dome, squinting in the dark. Erik moves his fingers surreptitiously and scoots a piece of metal out of the way behind Charles, allowing what little light there is to seep in.

He doesn't think anything of it until Charles' eyes widen almost comically and he lets out a pained little wheeze, locking gazes with Erik.

"You're a mutant," he says with solid certainty. Erik wants to say no, but can't explain the shell. He wants to say yes, but has to decipher the look in Charles' eyes first and make sure it isn't fear. He doesn't answer.

"That's not normally what people say after being in a plane crash," Erik replies drily.

Charles turns his head away and reaches for Erik's arm again before stopping himself.

"What do they say?" He whispers.

"I don't know, I've never been in one," Erik says. "Well," and he shrugs, "not until now."

"Me neither." Erik doesn't like how quiet Charles' voice has become. "This is the second time I've ever flown," he admits.

Erik leans forward, reaching an arm past Charles and pretending to push and pry at the metal until there's a big enough hole for him to climb out of.

"You're doing marvelously," he assures Charles.

“Stay here if you like.” Erik slides past Charles, not as gracefully as he’d like, and he hits his knee against three separate facets of the shell before he manages to climb out. “It’s not a very pleasant scene,” Erik calls from outside. “Take your time if you feel weak.”

He sees Charles nod from the shadows inside the shell and turns away, putting up an arm over his eyes to try and shield them from the rain. It’s dark out, pitch black in the middle of the night and there’s no moonlight to see by. Only a layered splash of stars across the sky and little fires still holding on and refusing to die by the rain.

Erik turns in a full circle, slow and steady, to assess their situation.

The plane is lying crumpled near a treeline. Erik walks a little distance away and stares at the wreckage. The trees are huge and look like they almost completely block the rainfall from hitting the ground underneath. They give way to a pebbly beach which in turn falls away to white sands. Erik’s feet sink into the water-saturated sand and he continues walking. The plane’s wings are shredded, the one pointing towards the ocean entirely disconnected from the body. Erik wonders if the fires will start to spread to the trees, if they even can when everything’s sodden with rain.

He starts to stitch together a survival plan in his head as he treks down the beach, the sound of waves breaking on the beach in one ear and the curtain of rain in the other.

He can make a shelter out of the plane, there’s enough of it still salvageable. Food, he’ll check the—

Erik freezes at the sound of a scream, piercing through the rain. He turns, stumbling over pebbles as he starts back around the nose of the plane and onto the open beach, towards the place where he’d left his shell.

Charles is half-lying on an overturned and mangled mess, what used to be a row of seats. He’s staring straight ahead and his head’s turned towards a family of three, four rows up. Erik, if asked, couldn’t identify a single feature on any of them. It’s horrific, imagining what the pain must’ve been like and starting at them for too long makes his stomach twist. The rain has washed away most of the blood and he’s left looking at shreds of skin and muscles, battered and abused by the impacts.

He only spares a glance at the bodies and is thankful that they’re the only ones visible from where Charles is. He hasn’t moved, eyes wide in a dead kind of shock. Erik can tell he isn’t processing any of what he’s seeing. Erik himself is surprised he isn’t on the ground and screaming, but he’s sure the shock and terror will knock him down as soon as the adrenaline and urgency ebb away.

Charles must have crawled out of the shell to look for Erik, seen the people and collapsed. He kneels down in front of Charles, blocks his view and sees that his hands are shaking horribly.

Erik reaches out and takes them tentatively. He watches as the shaking stills and Charles starts to breathe normally again. His eyes refocus, flicking over Erik’s face.

“Are you alright? You’re not hurt?” Erik asks and Charles pulls his hands away, trying to stand on unsteady legs.

“Yes yes, perfectly, I’m just—” He cries out and falls to his knees. Erik watches helplessly as he clutches his head and hisses in a breath. Tears start to fall helplessly from his eyes. “I’m just terrified. I’ve never—”

* * *

Charles is trying. He’s _trying_ to speak but he can’t force words out of his mouth too fast or he’ll throw up. What he's just heard, what he's just _seen—_ He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be surrounded by this. How will they get out? Are they going to be rescued? Raven will be worried to death if he doesn’t show up at the conference. It’s all a little too much and he starts to sob in the rain, a shuddering ache of exhaustion constricting him. He hasn’t even _done anything._

“I feel helpless,” he manages, water soaking into his clothes, flowing down his face following the lines of agony which etch themselves into it as he grimaces in pain.

Erik crouches down next to him again and puts an arm around his shoulder.

“When was the last time you slept? You look tired,” he says softly. Charles can’t find it in him to remember, all he knows is that the days before his flight were filled with hours of unbroken research and writing, Raven nagging him to shut his eyes for a moment, cup of coffee after cup of coffee and now… And now _this._ A tragedy. The stress pulls at every limb of his body, the horror stabs into his mind.

“I don’t know,” Charles admits. He closes his eyes. The rain washes over his eyelids, cold and uncomforting. “I don’t want to sleep, I can’t stop seeing…” He trails off, trying to block off the visions of that family, still in their seats behind him.

Erik holds him closer and Charles melts into his touch. “I’ll watch over you,” he promises. “It’s alright. You’ll be safe.”

This man is a stranger. He’s a kind, strong, _mutant_ stranger, but that’s a topic for another time. Charles has barely known him half a day but he’s—

He’s tired. And he’s been promised safety. Only a short nap. Then he can wrap his head around what they’re supposed to do, how they’ll be saved and what he’ll say to Raven when they get back. Charles leans more heavily against Erik and mumbles out “thank you.” It’s all he can manage.

He thinks Erik leads him back to the shell. It's dry when he falls asleep.

The rain dissipates by the morning. It is a beautiful morning, at that. Charles feels like it's a bit unfair, all things considered, but the world and it's morning beauty never cared for tragedy.

He peeks out of the shell, eyes squinting in the sunlight. He feels a little better after sleeping and he can feel the electric sensation of Erik's mind working at something nearby. He doesn't get any closer, mentally, but he climbs out of the shell and off the plane, stretching his arms and taking in the scene from the night before in a different light. _More_ light.

The plane is almost completely unidentifiable as an aircraft. That's what hits him first. There are no bodies, either. He turns around, away from the glittering ocean and the cerulean sky, dotted with white puffs of cloud, and towards the bulk of the island.

As he does, he sees something flashing at the treeline. The sunlight blinks off a shining scrap of metal and he starts off to look closer, hearing the transition from pebbles to dirt under his feet.

There are two long pieces of a beam stuck into the ground in the shape of an X. The ground Charles stands on is softer. Newly dug. He looks around.

"You're awake," Erik says from behind him, making Charles jump. Just _how_ he managed to sneak up on a _telepath_ Charles isn't ready to think about. Perhaps he'd just been too caught up in—

He looks at Erik. _Looks at him._ He hasn't slept. There are what cannot be mistaken for anything except tear tracks on his face, a little dirty but no less handsome. _No. What?_ Charles stops just short of shaking his head. Those are thoughts for another time.

"You buried them?" He sounds almost reverent in his appreciation. Erik is obviously strong, being able to move and bury so many… horrors. He could barely keep himself from passing out the night before, and Erik did all of this.

"You're amazing." It comes out like he's listing a fact and Erik smirks.

"You sound very sure of yourself for someone who's only met me yesterday," he says. Charles opens his mouth to reply but Erik turns around.

"Come on, then, we've got work to do," he says. Charles can't do much else but follow.

"Do you have a plan?" He asks once they get back to the plane. Erik turns to him, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. Charles wants to wash it for him.

"For getting rescued or survival?" He asks. Charles detects the barest hint of an accent in his voice.

"Either," Charles says.

"For rescue?" Erik hums, thinking, and climbs into the wreckage. "Sort of. For survival, absolutely."

Charles opens his hands, encouraging Erik to go on. The man pokes around in the twisted chunks of metal for a moment before standing up again.

"I can handle making us a shelter, if you can focus on sweeping the plane for any food and water. Look _thoroughly_. If it comes down to it, we can forage and fish. I'm sure we can figure something out for fresh water when we need it. If not, I say there's a fairly good chance the island will have a waterfall from the mountain runoff." Erik points behind him at the towering mountain at the center of the island.

Charles beams at him. At the very least he's been stranded with a competent person. "Wonderful plan, Erik. Top marks." He tacks on the last sentence on instinct and looks away when he sees Erik start to raise his eyebrows.

"I'll get to work on searching the plane, then," he says. "How do you plan on making us a shelter?" He's already sure he has a good idea, but he wants to let Erik show him on his terms. He's already tossed the word at him twice.

Erik doesn't move from where he stands, just extends his hand and bends back a wide sheet of metal from the inside casing of the plane's body. It cracks off and he floats it over to Charles, dropping it nearby on the pretty white sand.

"Like that."

"Absolutely beautiful," Charles praises him without thinking, clasping his hands together. "Is it telekinesis?" He asks.

Erik cracks a small smile. "Metallokinesis, actually," he corrects. Charles smiles even brighter.

"I've never met someone like you. Truly unique," he mutters.

Erik clears his throat and jumps down from the plane. He starts rolling up his sleeves and Charles notices how covered in dirt his clothes are. He must have worked through the night to bury the passengers. The light dims from his face with his smile and he steps forward to put a hand gently on Erik's shoulder.

"I don't know how hard it was for you to—” he searches for the words, comes up empty," to bury that many people. Looking like they did. You're very brave." He rubs his thumb along the thin stitching of Erik's shirt.

"If you need anything to support you, anything I can give… tell me. I want to help." He means it, grief is hard. Even if they were strangers, they were people. Even if they were strangers he still had to look at every single one of them.

Erik's face looks forced into a stony mask and he nods sharply, stiffly. Charles waits a moment.

Erik opens his arms, shifts his shoulders back and Charles blinks once he realizes what Erik's asking for.

Charles can't remember the last time he hugged someone. They're both stiff from stress and Erik feels like he's trying not to fall into Charles' arms but he's warm and they both need it. He can feel something twist and crumble, big enough that he hears it from Erik's mind even when he's not listening. It sounds like a dam breaking.

Erik cries quietly. It's so soundless, Charles knows it can only be from experience. He holds him more tightly. Tears soak into his shirt but he doesn't move, doesn't speak.

He hopes they make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to physically restrain myself from using "sapphire orbs" to describe Charles' eyes bc my sister and I thought it was funny


	2. Chapter 2

Charles' arms start to ache after an hour of rifling through scraps and wreckage.

Erik suggested he focus on finding what food he can but there are plenty of other things that might be useful. Bins, buckets and bottles, for example. Charles knows they'll go looking for fresh water soon and they'll need things to carry it in.

He finds a single suitcase that hasn't been blown apart or shredded in any major capacity and he'll go mad if he doesn't have at least a single change of clothes. He's yet to try any of it on, however. There's one inflatable life raft that may or may not have a hole in it and four life vests.

Finding the first aid kit is the highlight of Charles' entire day.

He has a neat case of water bottles without punctures in them which was found in a bent and battered cupboard, four cans of pineapple juice that aren't too badly dented, three cold airline meals which aren't smeared across their lids— although they're now thawed and the edibility is questionable— and one unopened package of pretzel packets. Two-hundred count.

The rest is unsalvageable. Charles is quietly disappointed with what he's got as he exits the plane. He feels like he should have come up with more. Erik had left him after picking up the most intact plane wing and walking towards the trees with it floating behind him. Charles could spend hours thinking about that, the power and control behind his gift, the extent of it, the way Erik's shoulders rippled with effort when he first picked it up and watching his back as he walked away—

Charles stops in his tracks, arms full of food and cheeks embarrassingly red. He imagines he's got that splotchy look which he's never liked but Raven always told him some guy would find cute (still hasn't found the guy).

He shakes his head and clears it of all thoughts about Erik's body. There are more than he'd like. He starts walking again, head down and watching the sand shift into pebbles.

Erik has built a house.

Charles notices that when he looks up again. It's made of metal. White painted plane metal. The roof is suspiciously shaped like a wing. He looks back at the plane, noticing pieces missing and wonders how he missed all that happening around him. Scrounging for food scraps is really immersive, isn't it?

"Is that lunch I see?" Erik calls and Charles turns around again. He's standing on the roof of the house and looking down at Charles. He doesn't look any cleaner. Charles longs for soap.

He smiles at Erik, squinting against the sun, and meets him at the door of the house.

"Is this two stories?" He asks wondrously as Erik invites him in. The question gets answered for him. It's not, it just has a very high ceiling.

It's a nice size for the two of them, just big enough for what he's put inside. Three rows of seats which he's twisted and shoved together into something they could probably sleep on and a big rectangular box in the corner.

Erik sees Charles staring at it and takes half of the bottles out of his arms.

"This is just an insulated box I made," he says brightly. "Should keep things fresh a bit longer." He places the water bottles and juice cans in the box and lets Charles dump the rest inside.

"It all looks wonderful," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't find more food."

Erik shrugs, the movement looking like it aches. "It's hardly your fault," he says. "Don't worry too much."

Charles nods silently and wanders over to the 'bed.' Laying on airplane seats is about as comfortable as he expects. He sighs the tension out of his body and stares up at the wing which makes up the ceiling.

"I suppose a source of fresh water is next?" Charles says aloud.

Erik's still standing by his insulated box and he leans against it, shoving his hands in his pockets. He hums in agreement, glancing around their single room idly.

"We could search around this bit of the island for any sources," Erik starts. "If we need, I'll make us some buckets." Charles isn't sure if he's trying to make a joke, but he doesn't dislike the way Erik's mouth pulls up at one corner.

"Hold on," Charles says suddenly. He sits up again, ignoring the way his arms plead for him to take a break and hops to his feet.

"I'm so sorry, I forgot something," he apologizes, already halfway out the door again. "I'll be back."

He jogs down the beach, the sunlight beating down from a little past straight overhead. Charles shields his eyes from it as he focuses on the plane again.

In all honesty, they could rest for the day and pick up the water search in the morning. It would be smarter to have as much daylight as they could and trekking through a forest was always better on a full night's sleep.

Charles clambers up into the plane again and glances at the piles he'd made of useful items. He takes a moment to remember where he put Erik's camera.

He wasn't too surprised earlier to find it laying on the bottom of the shell that had protected them. It seemed Erik had forgotten about it amongst the stressors of the day before and Charles had placed it near where they climbed in and out.

He picks it up, feeling the weight in his hands as he turns it over. The lenscap is on, thank goodness, and there's a fabric neckstrap attached. It's a dark magenta color and has little flowers embroidered all over.

Charles would love to examine it more, see what he can glean from the item alone about the man who owns it, but that's not the reason why he came to get it.

Erik has migrated from the box to the bed when Charles pushes open the door again, camera in hand.

Erik's eyes widen when he sees it and he doesn't wait for Charles to hold it out before snatching it up with his powers.

Charles lets out a half-breath, watching Erik look the thing over like he'll fall apart if it's been broken.

"You found it," Erik breaths, turning the camera over, his fingers over nearly the same places as Charles' had been. He holds it up to his eye, squints into the viewfinder and unclips the lenscap in one movement.

"It was in the—” Charles mimics the shape of the shell with his hands, "thing. That you saved us with."

"Ah, I did leave it in the shell," Erik mutters. He's got the camera pointed at every available surface he can see, barring Charles. "It feels good to hold it again."

Charles can imagine. What he'd give for a piece of normalcy to ground him.

"I hope the battery lasts." Erik sets the camera in his lap and looks up at Charles. "I'd like to get some shots of the island but I'd rather do it once we're settled."

Charles nods. "Do you always take them with your hands?" He asks. After a second, the words catch up to him and he winces.

"I'm sorry. I'm not, uh, functioning at my best. I mean do you ever take pictures with your mutation? Hands-free?" Charles wants to learn about Erik. He seems interesting, like the kind of person one would love to be wrecked on an island with.

Erik smiles at Charles, leans back on the bed and props himself up with one arm. Charles finds he likes this look on him, even more than the half-curve of his mouth from earlier.

"You don't spend a lot of time around mutants, do you?" Erik assumes, the tone of his voice staying light.

Charles can't help but chuckle at that, lowering himself to the floor and sighing.

"Oh, on the contrary. My sister is a mutant, as are some of my colleagues. I'm—” He stops short of telling Erik that _he_ is a mutant. On the one hand, there's not a point to it if he can't do anything to help them. On the other, it could be monumental for Erik to know he's not alone. In more ways than one.

Erik is staring at him, waiting. His fingers play with the neckstrap on his camera and his grey eyes follow where Charles' hands move as he tries to line up his thinking and finish his sentence.

He looks tired. He looks _so tired._ Worse than the night before. He must be exhausted, to have done so much in so little time. There are fresh tear tracks through the ever-layering dirt on his cheeks and Charles can't help himself this time from moving close to Erik, leaning over the edge of the bed.

He tries to get closer with the edge of his sleeve, to clean the sorrow off Erik's face, but he moves away as the look in his eyes grows colder.

Charles freezes, his hand inches away from Erik's face.

"I'm sorry, I was only trying to—” he feels the heat creep up his neck and he retreats. "I should've asked." His voice has lost its luster. Erik eyes him as he sits back down.

He clears his throat, hoping to clear what's gone up between them as well.

"As I was saying. I am a mutant." 

"You didn't say so earlier." Erik tilts his head slightly.

"Well, it's not really very useful," Charles defends. "There's nothing I can do here to help us. Not like you, Erik, you built us a shelter and saved our lives, you've done nothing but good since we crashed and all I—”

"Charles." Erik's voice cuts through his thoughts and lands squarely amongst them. Whatever look he'd been wearing a few moments ago is gone now and his eyes are shining like liquid mercury. "What's yours?" He asks.

"I'm a telepath."

Erik's smile is back. "Exceptional."

Charles feels warmth swell in his chest despite himself. "Doesn't help us much, I'm afraid," he says anyway.

Erik scoffs lightly, shaking his head. "We'll then it's a good thing your worth isn't determined by whether or not you are immediately useful," he says pointedly, standing and stretching his back out.

He offers a hand to Charles, who takes it, and Erik helps him to his feet. His hand is strong and warm, not as rough as he'd expected.

"You sure know to cheer a man up," Charles says, just this side of a chuckle.

"Oh, I'm sure I can find more efficient ways to do that," Erik says and, again, Charles finds himself wondering whether or not it's a joke.

"I feel like I should be concerned by how chipper we are about all this." Charles rests his hands on his hips and looks around the house again.

"We're alive, we have the right to be as chipper as we damn well want."

Charles smiles at that. He can't argue with Erik's logic there.

They quiet down for the moment. Charles watches Erik bend a sheet of metal out from the wall and rests his camera on it.

"Erik, what's your favorite color?" Charles asks suddenly. He's never been all that good at small talk unless it was work-related or he was flirting and, well. Erik's not a scientist. And Charles doesn't know if he likes men.

"Excuse me?"

Charles shrugs. "Well, if we'll be stuck here for the foreseeable future we should get to know one another," he reasons.

"I know an easier way." Erik turns around and raises his eyebrows at Charles. After a second he points to his head, a little smile quirking up his lips.

Charles sighs. "No. Erik, I don't do that. Not without permission or in an emergency.”

"I give you my permission."

"Usually people are wary of telepaths." Charles crosses his arms. "What if I take away your free will or make you do my bidding and don't let go?"

Erik is stubborn. Charles shouldn't find it as endearing as he does, but… he does. "Why would you do that to me? We're stranded. Won't do you any good."

"Indeed." Charles is at a loss. It isn't that he _doesn't_ want to use his gift, he just needs to be sure.

"Go on. What's my favorite color." Erik steps towards him. Charles doesn't step back. He reaches out with his mind, wrapping around the thoughts and feelings that are so easy to latch onto, coming from a place of brightness and warmth. Creativity and intelligence and _good._

Erik's mind is gorgeous and it's tempting to just dive into it and get lost in the intricacies. He doesn't. He finds what he's looking for.

Charles feels a smile spread across his face as he opens his eyes again and finds Erik staring back, looking unaffected if a little flushed high on his cheeks.

"You don't have one," Charles answers.

Erik grins at him. "What's yours?" He asks. Charles doesn't even hesitate.

"Blue."

* * *

The day marches onwards. The sun crawls across the heavens in a wide arc. Erik listens to Charles make idle chatter as he rips more of the plane apart and begins arranging scraps across the beach.

They'd talked earlier, decided that it would be good to get an early start on a distress signal. Erik only has the one idea.

"You're spelling 'help' in the sand with metal scraps?" Charles had asked, minutes ago.

"Do you have a better idea?" He'd shot back. Charles smiled easily and shook his head.

Now he's lining up bits and pieces in giant letter formations. Neither of them are sure this'll even work. He sits back for a moment, rolling out his shoulders and taking a few deep breaths. Charles passes him a water bottle, one they'd been sharing throughout the day.

He takes it gratefully and tries not to swallow it all, no matter how tempting.

"You are very powerful, Erik," Charles says off-handedly. There's sincerity there, just like the other times he's said things like that— _marvelous, you're amazing, wonderful plan, absolutely beautiful, truly unique—_ and Erik feels like he can get used to being talked to like this.

"I've had a lifetime to practice," he finds himself saying. "I've been using it since I manifested. It feels _right._ It's a part of me, I should be using it. Don't you feel that way?" He stands up again, directing both his arms towards the plane and hearing the crunch of metal as he disconnects another piece.

Charles watches him work for a second.

"Of course I feel that way. This is who we are. But I can't exactly go around reading everyone's mind or making them forget that embarrassing thing I said." He kicks his feet idly in the sand, his jaw set.

"My department wouldn't call me anything but 'the Telepath' for weeks after I started working with them. I have to be up-front about being _me_ whenever I try to date or else he'll feel he's been lied to.

"I've never tried to hide my gift but sometimes—” he stops short, letting out a sharp sigh. "Never mind."

Erik lets silence fall. He finishes making the P, signalling the end of their rescue attempts so far, and turns towards Charles. He's staring out over the ocean and his eyes match the color of the water.

"If it means anything," Erik starts, "I think your gift is incredible. You can use it whenever you want, here, I won't stop you."

Charles manages a smile at him and they make their way back to the house tucked beneath the trees.

They’re sitting on the bed later, sharing a can of pineapple juice. It’s not much but Erik’s afraid they won’t find enough food. He doesn’t say it, of course, but he’s sure Charles must feel it. See it, hear it, however he perceives these things.

Charles passes the can back to him and Erik takes it. It feels intimate, the way they sit so close and finish the drink together. Charles watches him from beneath his eyelashes, eyes flicking over his face. Erik tries to keep his thoughts at bay as he feels his face heat up, imagining a heavy metal wall to hide them all behind like he’d been taught. He catches Charles’ eye as he takes the last sip, caught in the crystals that make up his irises.

"Erik." Charles falls back, a breath escaping him as he spreads his arms out and stares up at the ceiling. His hair fans out around his head and Erik crumples the can into a tiny aluminum ball.

"Yes?" He flicks it at the wall, pressing it into the metal there until it stays, a little disc against the stark white of the rest of the panel.

Charles rolls over to the edge of the bed, giving Erik enough space to climb over him and lay down as well. "Why did you only make us one bed?" he asks. There’s the beginning of a smile on his lips not fully formed yet, like he’s waiting to find out if it’s okay yet.

"Because…" Erik doesn’t know how he’s meant to finish that. _I want to know I'm not alone,_ his mind helpfully supplies. He doesn’t voice it. It sounds terrible. Needy, desperate, afraid. Which he is, but that isn’t the point. Charles’ smile fades. Erik misses it immediately.

"Actually, I don't think it matters,” he says, turning over and facing away from Erik. “I don't mind it,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else. Erik stays up for what feels like hours, staring at Charles’ back. He falls asleep eventually. It’s pitch black when he does.


End file.
